


Repetition

by meaninglessblah



Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [7]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Camboy Damian Wayne, Collars, Community: dckinkmeme, Gags, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Vibrators, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26525971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim discovers his recent guilty pleasure is a little morefamiliarthan he originally suspected.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906351
Comments: 17
Kudos: 155





	Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a fill for the[DC Kinkmeme](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org).**
> 
> **Prompt:** Damian tries out camboying, to fill the void bad parenting and withheld affection have left in him. Nothing too scandalous at first, but the expectations to perform are low and the sense of "achievement" he gets from completing requests is a good motivator, so it escalates. Money isn't an issue.
> 
> He takes on the moniker Robin because hidden in plain sight seems like the best strategy, and wears only the mask while on camera. (Suspend disbelief and assume the mask magically hides his identity, doesn't need to be rationalised in text).
> 
> Tim, who isn't yet out to his family - can be as simple as "just hasn't found the right moment yet" or "hasn't had the time to tell them" - goes online for some quick stress relief, finds the moniker amusing and gets off to the video. Closes browser, doesn't think anything more of it.
> 
> It's not until he goes back for a rewatch that certain... details start catching his notice, and Tim recognises that it's definitely Damian.
> 
> They're now locked in a stalemate, and Tim doesn't know how much longer he can sit quietly at the breakfast table and watch Damian shovel cornflakes knowing the objects that were down his throat last night.

“It’s not him,” Tim says. 

“It’s _definitely_ him," Steph repeats, one palm braced against the desktop and one on her hip, curled over Tim where they’re clustered around his high definition monitor. 

“It can’t be,” Tim squeaks, more a plea than a protest. 

“It _is,_ ” Steph implores, teeth flashing beneath those manically gleaming eyes. Tim questions again why he felt the need to bring this to _her,_ of all people, instead of literally anyone more sympathetic to his plight. 

Tim lets his gaze swivel back to the screen, to the video playing out on mute. (He’d double and then triple checked, just in case they’re walked in on and he has to hastily tab to a new application). There are nerves buzzing in the back of his throat, horror drying his tongue in his mouth. 

Steph squints and leans closer, over the back of his desk chair and over Tim. “ _Christ,_ how many inches is that?” 

Sometimes Tim hates how analytical his brain can be, diagnosing lengths and widths at just a glance. Tim knows exactly how many inches that is. Tim doesn’t answer. 

“That’s what, eight? Nine?” There’s an awed quality to Steph’s tone as she rocks back on her heels with a low whistle. “Fuck, but that boy can _swallow-_ ” 

“Steph,” Tim pleads, whimpering her name around the mortification sticking his throat shut. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she rambles quickly, but her gaze doesn’t lift from the screen, mesmerised. “I just mean - I like to think I can take dick like a champ, but _that_ is something else-” 

Tim caves, curling forward to bury his face in his palms with a deep groan. 

Steph grins. “Guess you’re not the only size queen in this house,” she says cheerily, and Tim glances up to see the figure on the screen slipping the saliva-slicked member from between his lips with obscene grace, every ridge of his windpipe prominent as he gasps and swallows. Reaches for another toy even as he smacks those plump, bruised lips. 

Tim wants to cry. Whatever would divorce him from the reality of this situation. 

Steph, as always, looks way too gleeful with his abject horror. 

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, betrayed. 

“Who? Me?” she purrs, eyes alight. “No… Couldn’t be. But if I was, I’d be absolutely _thrilled_ knowing that you got off to-” 

“Don’t,” Tim begs, grip tightening to splintering on the lip of the desk. “Don’t say his name.” 

“Are you embarrassed, birdbrain?” Steph croons. On the screen, the camboy is smearing some of the drool that had dribbled down to his chest over one pert nipple. Tim finds himself entranced, until he spots Steph’s gleeful expression, and quickly exits out the video. 

“It’s not him,” Tim declares with finality. 

“No?” 

“No,” Tim demands, scowling. 

“Timmy Drake gets off to slutty little camboys in his spare time,” Steph sing-songs, leaning a hip against his desk. “Or is it just the one slutty camboy?” 

“It can’t be him,” Tim mutters, and spins his chair around to shove to his feet. He needs to work down some of this pent up energy, needs to offload. 

“Why not?” Steph replies with a shrug, glancing back at his screensaver. “He’s cute. Attractive. I can see the appeal. Checks out to me.” 

“ _No,_ ” Tim growls. “It doesn’t ‘check out’. Because if that _is_ who I think it is, then…” 

Steph’s grin grows by a few lethal inches. “Aw, getting bashful, are you?” 

“I can’t be him. Because if it was, that means I-” Tim glances at his closed bedroom door and makes a crude gesture with his closed fist below the belt, “to- to-” 

“You jacked off to prettyboy Damian Wayne.” 

Tim spins on her with a bright glare, closing the distance to smother her lips with a palm. “Don’t _ever_ say that aloud again.” 

She tosses her head back, wrestling her mouth free as she cackles. “But it’s true! You got off to Damian deepthroating one impressively big-” 

Tim folds to his knees and slams his forehead into the desktop, willing the blow to dislodge the picture-perfect memory of the video from his memory. It plays behind his eyelids in sickeningly good quality, the warm olive skin of the teen’s throat flexing around a bright green dildo for the viewing pleasure of a thousand horny spectators. 

He doesn’t know when Damian started camboying to fill his time between school and patrol. Not more than a year ago, Tim estimates, based on how many subscribers he’s gotten. But long enough to amass a small, dedicated following of faceless people eager to submit their debauched requests to the freshly eighteen-year-old. 

In the dark, depraved parts of him, Tim can see why. Damian looks objectively gorgeous on screen, collarbones painted with some sort of glitter or butter til they shine beneath the lights. He always cams bare-chested, unless he’s trying out some custom clamps a viewer has sent him. 

And years of patrolling Gotham’s seediest underbelly has given him a physique some men would kill for. Tight, ribbed abs and thick thighs perfect for garters. He’s leaner than Bruce, waist pinched where Bruce is more barrel-chested, some of his mother’s sway to his hips. But with that firm Wayne jawline, and very fuckable lips. 

That’s what had suckered Tim in the first place, those tantalising lips, wrapped around the tip of a neon green dildo in the video’s thumbnail. Them, and the ‘Robin’ moniker in the title. 

He’d figured it was a joke, some smartass springboarding off Gotham’s longest-serving junior hero, with a green mask and gruff voice to match. The dark hair and olive skin in and of themselves hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, and it’s not like Tim had been _looking_ for Damian in the high cheekbones of the camboy on his computer screen. 

He’d been looking for some quick spank material, and he’d landed on his channel purely by coincidence, amused by the name enough to give the guy a once over. What had suckered him in was the artful way he’d mouthed at the considerably broad dildo, muscles of his abdomen pulling taunt as he’d risen and fallen on two fingers, all on display for the camera. 

Tim had gotten off, like all adolescents with half a libido do. Hadn’t thought anything of it. Closed the browser in the wash of fading endorphins, and reached for the nearby box of tissues. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t recognise him until after you’d gotten off,” Steph snorts. “Post-orgasm clarity, I guess.” 

Tim mumbles something unintelligible and shakes his head slowly, not lifting it from the wood. 

“What was that?” 

“Second time,” he murmurs, system flooded with self-disgust. “I didn’t recognise him until the second time I was-” 

The longer he’d stared, mounting horror only serving to improve his clarity, the more details had begun to lift themselves from the images on his screen. A familiar scar above his left hip, the burn just beneath his pectoral, the mole over his fifth true rib. And with that dawning clarity, the realisation that he’d just come to his adoptive brother riding his own fingers like his life depended on it. 

Dread had come first, and then shame, burning through the dirty feeling clinging to Tim’s skin, branding him with the embarrassment of his revelation. 

He hadn’t even started to question why _Damian_ was doing it until he’d spent one too many mornings staring across the breakfast table. Watching the teen shovel cornflakes and picturing the flex of those same muscles around the dildo he’d edged himself on last night for fifteen minutes while the tips had rolled in. Tim hadn’t lost his appetite so much exactly, but rather become aware of a distinctly _different_ kind of hunger. 

Maybe this is teenage rebellion, seeing what he can get away with under the Batman’s own roof. Someone who spends their evenings running over rooftops fighting crime would need to go to extremes to satisfy that adolescent itch. 

Tim’s got to hand it to Damian, he’d never have foreseen the teen turning to camboying. Lord knows he doesn’t need the money; his trust funds have trust funds. 

He supposes it’s some dangerous concoction of blooming sexuality and insatiable libido, wrapped up in the heady praise his patrons lather upon him. He certainly draws a crowd. Damian’s popularity can’t be overstated; Tim’s watched thousands of eager souls log on at exactly 11 p.m. sharp Thursday nights, when Alfred retires early to watch reruns of Golden Girls. 

And Tim, shuffling in with the masses, to see what new delight Damian’s thought up this week. 

There seems to be nothing that doesn’t look exquisite on the teen. Even when Tim’s layering every memorised sneer and scathing retort over the man’s face, he can’t help but be drawn in by the swoop of those long lashes, the purse of those pretty pink lips, the flush on those sharp cheekbones. 

And that’s before Damian even reaches for his box of patron-donated toys, making a show of selecting just the right vibe, or bullet, or clamps for the evening. 

There was one memorable occasion when Damian hooked his short red vibrator up to his tip jar and cuffed himself to the headboard. Tim had stared, mouth agape and hand clenched tight on the mast of his rock-hard cock as the teen had clenched and whimpered around a ball gag, twitching every time someone dropped a fifty into his virtual jar and the toy in his ass had hummed mercilessly for thirty seconds straight. 

He’d come untouched, twice, while Tim had shuddered, bent in half over his desk as he’d spilled into his palm with a force that had been blinding. 

And then, once he’d cleaned his hand off, donated a clean two hundred into the jar just to watch Damian’s eyes roll back in his head, hips bucking fruitlessly into the empty air. 

Tim doesn’t know what keeps drawing him back. He’d thought it was morbid curiosity at first, and then brotherly concern, as absurd as that seemed. Even if he was still an upright brat, Damian had levelled out with age, his relationship with Tim progressing leagues from the lethal sibling rivalry they’re shared. He’s just wanted to be sure Damian knew what he was doing, inviting thousands of strangers on the internet into his bed. 

But the longer Tim sat there - watching the glint of clamps locked tight on Damian’s near-purple nipples, the shudder of his thighs in the pretty lace garters, the splatter of cum staining up to his throat - the less he’d been able to justify his fascination with something so perversely delightful. 

He knew it was Damian, had known for the last eight weeks he’d logged on, and it hadn’t had any less of a physiological effect on him. Even now, Tim can feel his pulse thundering between his ears, the slick slide of his thumb through the precum gathering on the tip of his aching cock. _Knowing_ doesn’t stop how Tim’s stomach lurches when those gorgeous green eyes swim into view as the stream connects, those lids dusted with tasteful gold eyeshadow. 

He lets his hand wrap loosely around his member, thumb to forefinger, to stroke himself once, slowly, titillatingly, as Damian shows off the latest addition to his collection of gifts from his online suitors. Squeezes hard when Damian slides two fingers under the strip of burgundy red leather and the bedroom lights - just two doors down from where Tim sits - glint across the golden _T D_ printed at the front of his throat. 

Can barely stand to hold himself back from the cusp of orgasm when Damian peels back the layer of almost-transparent lace lingerie to slide the first anal bead into himself, panting harder with every addition. Shoves a knuckle between his teeth to muffle his cry when he comes in tandem with the teenager, stroking the single piercing beneath the head of his swollen cock as he shoots up his bare chest. 

Tim sits there in the afterglow, as Damian thanks his loyal patrons and signs off, flushed and debauched and stretched out, head spinning with the tingling perversion of what he’s done, what he’s doing, what he’s going to keep doing. 

Then Tim reaches for his phone and resets the timer for exactly ten forty-five p.m., every Thursday.

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
